What Inexperience Teaches You About Humility
Lesson #4 I learned while scuba diving.
On a windy, April morning we loaded onto the dive boat. I’d flown to Key West with my dad for a quick weekend dive trip. We had one day to dive and so, despite the winds and cloudy skies, we were determined to get in the water. I huddled up in a towel for the trip out. Even though I hadn’t been in the water yet, I was perpetually cold.
About halfway to the wreck, the boat captain switched plans. He said that the current was too strong, and they would be going to another location. (It was another wreck. I can’t, for the life of me, remember this wreck’s name.) I shook off the disappointment I felt about not being able to dive the Vandenburg, which was the second-largest artificial reef, measuring 522’ long and 11 stories tall and a pretty spectacular dive site. Instead of dwelling on missing the opportunity to dive the Vandenburg, I focused my mind on the excitement of being able to see something new.
The boat tethered to the next dive site’s mooring. It was another wreck, but slightly more shallow and closer to a reef system that the captain had hoped would ease the current. The captain and divemaster peered over the side at the ocean’s surface. I followed their lead. You could see the ripples of water rushing, pulling, pulsing, tearing in a line beside the boat. The current was strong here too.
the lead divemaster, Pat, said, got the boat’s attention for the briefing. There were five recreational divers on board — my dad, myself, Kate, Mark, and Steven. “All right divers, listen up. The current is extremely strong here. If you look at the top of the water, you can visibly see it ripping against the boat. Each of you needs to decide how comfortable you are diving in these conditions. There are some things to consider. During the entire dive, you will need to be either holding onto a rope or hiding behind the wreck, shielding yourself from the current. We put a rope out that leads you directly to the buoy. The buoy is then attached to the line that takes you down to the bow of the wreck. When you jump in you must immediately grab that first rope or else you will be swept far away from the boat.”
“Woah, what’s that?” Kate interrupted the briefing and pointed into the water. I peered over the side and saw that right below the surface you could make out a group of divers. There were maybe five or six. They each had these black packs on their backs and no bubbles were reaching the surface.
Pat looked in the water and smirked. “Well, today is a special day. We are out with the Navy Seals.”
“Those are the Navy Seals?” my dad asked.
Pat nodded. “Yup, those packs are called rebreathers. No bubbles leave so they can be as discrete as possible in the water.”
“They aren’t holding onto any ropes,” Mark observed.
“They are the Navy Seals. They won’t have ropes on their missions. They are commonly seen out here training during the ocean’s worst conditions,” Pat explained.
We all nodded. Silence fell over the boat as we watched the seals disappear deeper below the surface.
“So, what do you all think? Do you still want to jump in the water?” Pat asked.
“No thanks. I don’t want to risk it,” Kate said, shaking her head.
“Me neither,” Mark was Kate’s dive buddy and seemed to share a similar cautiousness.
I looked at the surface of the water and then back over at Pat. “I’m jumping in,” I said.
“You are?” my dad asked.
I nodded. “It’s not every day that you get the chance to dive a strong current alongside the Navy Seals. Plus, I want to be in the water.”
“All right, I’m in too,” my dad told Pat.
“Steven?” Pat turned and looked at the last diver.
Steven was already readying his gear.
“I guess we have three yes’s,” Pat said. “Kate and Mark, you can wait on the boat with the captain. We will be back up after about 45–50 minutes of bottom time.”
I defogged my mask, put on my weight belt, turned on my tank, sat down, clipped on my fins, adjusted my BCD, tested my air, and inflated my vest. Then, I stood up and walked to the edge of the boat. I was the first one ready.
“Immediately after you jump in, grab the rope,” Pat told me.
I nodded. I jumped. The minute I hit the surface, I was forcefully pulled back by the water. I reached out and grabbed the rope. I held tight as my body was being ripped in the opposite direction.
“How is it?” my dad asked from the deck.
“Strong,” was all I managed to say. I had to focus my strength on continuing to grip this thin rope.
My dad jumped in and grabbed the rope. Steven and then Pat did the same. The four of us floated in a line on the surface. Each one of our bodies was splayed out behind us as it was pulled away by the current. I could hear our heavy, labored breathing.
“All right, the entire dive we will be following the line. When we get to the wreck, we can hide behind the bow of the ship to get out of the current. That is the only time you should let go of the rope. Got it?” Pat instructed.
We all nodded. Then we all deflated our BCDs and sunk below the surface, each still grasping the rope firmly in our hands. Pat led the effort. Behind Pat, was Steven, then my dad, and last was me. We followed each other in a slow, methodical line. Placing one hand in front of the other, we pulled ourselves deeper and deeper into the ocean as the current rushed past our ears, screaming for us to disappear in the opposite direction. I could hear the water soaring past my ears. I could see the tiny particles flying past my face. It looked like an underwater blizzard. The current was the wind. The particles were the snowflakes.
About halfway down the line, we spotted the Navy Seals again. They were swimming through the open water without a line to hold onto. They only had their legs’ power to propel them against the current, forward toward their destination. They looked like true special agents with their all-black suits, fins, and black packs that didn’t release any bubbles. My dad glanced back at me with wide eyes. I nodded to him. Though you can’t speak underwater, I knew we were both impressed.
The Navy Seals continued out of sight just as we reached the top of the wreck. The rope ended on the deck of the boat. Pat paused and turned around, signaling to each of us to follow his movements very closely. Pat released his hand from the rope. You could see his body get pulled back for a moment, but he immediately kicked downward and took refuge hiding in front of the bow.
Steven was next in line. He released his grip from the rope, got jerked backward, and kicked down towards refuge. Next, my dad. Then, me. I let go. I braced myself for the pullback. I kicked against the current. I hid in front of the bow.
We all high-fived each other and safely huddled away from the current. That’s when Pat got ambitious. He saw how seamlessly we all handled his instruction. He seemed to believe we could swim for a moment around the side of the ship before beginning our ascent back to the boat. He signaled this plan to us underwater. We all nodded in agreement.
Pat swam around the side of the boat, kicking with all his force against the current only to move at a snail’s pace up the boat’s side. I followed Pat. Then, my dad. Steven took up the rear. It was the most strenuous effort I have had to put into a dive. I was panting into my regulator, eating up my air supply, kicking as hard as I could, and barely even moving. I didn’t have time to think about or check on the people behind me. I could only focus on the task at hand. Stay with Pat. Kick against this current.
Eventually Pat found another cabin in the wreck that we could huddle inside. I followed Pat’s lead. So did my dad, but Steven never came. We looked up and down, left and right, but could not find him. We waited the recommended sixty seconds before Pat signaled that we needed to surface.
Pat pulled out his slate that he could write on underwater. He said, “Follow the line up. Do your safety stop. Then, surface together”. Pat then pointed to himself and signaled he was going to do a sweep around the boat to search for Steven. We each acknowledged we understood the other’s plan. Then we split off and my dad and I headed for the rope.
Now, the current was at our backs. It was pushing up forward so quickly it was hard to comprehend what was happening. I know I somehow found the line, but I could have easily flown right past it and disappeared past the boat and into the water. I tried my hardest on the ascent to rise at a slow pace. You never wanted to ascend too quickly for the risk of decompression sickness (or the bends). This was a scary term familiar to divers. It was the name for an illness that can arise from a rapid decrease in the pressure that surrounds you.
I tried to slow my ascent, but I was largely unsuccessful. The current threatened to rip me directly to the surface. I held tight to the rope. I paused, trying to complete my three-minute safety stop at the recommended 15 feet mark. I knew this stop was a necessary precaution against the bends. I held and held and held onto the rope as the current pushed past me. I held until my hands were numb and tired. I couldn’t grip the rope any longer. It slipped from my palms. I shot up to the surface. I looked at my watch. I had only managed to complete one minute of my safety stop.
I got lucky. I surfaced right next to the ladder. I grabbed the metal railing and held myself there. The captain came to help me on board. Kate and Mark rushed over, wanting to know how the dive went. I coughed. I held up my finger, asking them for a moment. They backed away, respecting my space.
“Where are the others?” the captain asked.
“My dad’s below finishing his safety stop. Steven got pulled away by the current. Pat is looking for him,” I explained. The captain, Kate, and Mark, all gave one another nervous glances. The captain immediately went to the boat’s radio. He needed to see if any other boat found Steven.
My dad surfaced a minute or two later and came over to me. He sat down with his equipment and let out a loud sigh, “Wow, that was quite the dive, huh? Are you okay? You came up so quick.”
I nodded as I tried to open and close my hands. Something strange was happening, I didn’t feel in control of my muscles. They felt stuck as if disconnected from my brain.
“You okay?” my dad asked again.
I nodded. I didn’t have the energy to explain. I was suddenly hit with an intense wave of exhaustion. At the time, I didn’t know I was developing a mild case of decompression sickness.
Just then the boat’s radio began going off. The captain rushed over and took the call. It was a fisherman’s boat about a quarter of a mile away. They had picked up Steven. He had been swept over there by the current. The captain leaned over the side of the boat and began banging on the side of the boat. It was the signal for an immediate surface. Pat followed the signal and came on board.
“Another boat found Steven,” the captain explained.
Pat let out a loud and exhausted sigh as he collapsed onto his seat and disassembled his gear.
We all sat in silence while we drove over to rescue Steven.
Take Away
I tried to find some big moral in this story, something profound and moving, something not too cheesy but still relatable. However, I don’t much. It was just a good story and one of those diving moments that stick with you.
I guess reflecting back on this experience, something that stands out to me is how important it is to be humble. I was the first to volunteer to dive into these adverse conditions, barely contemplating the hazards that could exist. I wanted to be in the water. I wanted to feel what a strong current was like. I wanted to swim next to the Navy Seals.
I don’t regret jumping in and doing so, but what I needed to acknowledge though was the challenge of the dive. I needed to both internally and externally own up to my own limited experience with these sorts of conditions and evaluate whether this was a dive I should be going on. I guess I learned a lot about this experience after all.
I learned humility.
I learned was the bends felt like.
I learned the panic of losing a diver.
I also learned how to confront my limitations.
Would I do anything differently? Probably not. I know myself. I was stubborn back then. I am still stubborn now. But my hard-headedness learned a thing or two about humility in the process.
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